


911

by T Verano (t_verano)



Category: The Sentinel (TV)
Genre: Bondage, Kink, M/M, written for multikinkmeme on dreamwidth
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-07
Updated: 2013-04-07
Packaged: 2020-03-14 15:03:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,146
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18950512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_verano/pseuds/T%20Verano
Summary: Jim and Blair explore a little bondage. Things don't go as expected.





	911

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the following TS prompt on the dreamwidth multikinkmene:
> 
> "Blair's face is so expressive that, even with the gag in, Jim can tell what he’s thinking."

911

He should've known the gag wouldn't be enough to shut Blair up. Not with a face as expressive as Blair's; every syllable Blair's thinking is coming across loud and clear. Jim grins.

_** How long are you gonna just stand there, man? **_

Jim's grin widens. _Good start._ Blair's impatient already and Jim hasn't even begun to tease him yet; before Jim's done Blair's going to be begging for it with everything he has. 

But no matter what Blair says, he's not going to talk Jim into hurrying. Jim steps back another few feet from the chair, slowly, admiring his handiwork. 

"Nice view," he says. And it is. 

And he intends to make goddamn sure Blair — eventually — ends up coming so hard and long and fucking _fine_ he nearly passes out, because Jim's going to want Blair to agree to do this again. That's a no-brainer.

 _** Come on, Jim._ Do _something. **_

Jim ignores that. "I like the way you're dressed," he says, and he does. Unlike Jim, Blair's stripped down to his impatient, slightly sweating skin. His wrists and ankles are tied to the arms and legs of the chair with silk scarves. The scarf Jim's used as a gag is clenched between Blair's lips, and Blair's eyes are already darkening into nearly the same deepwater shade of blue as the scarves. Yeah, Jim likes the way Blair's dressed.

Apparently, so does Blair. Jim drops his eyes to Blair's cock for a moment, which is jutting up enthusiastically from his lap. "Nice to see you're enjoying this," he says to Blair, who answers with one of his most expressive _** Jim **_ 's , dragging the syllable out for a good fifteen frustrated seconds. 

Which is pretty articulate compared to the next thing Blair says. Jim moves in close and uses the side of his thumbnail to draw a long, slow, carefully judged line from Blair's sternum down to just below his belly button, and what Blair says to that is pure, nonverbal shiver.

Nonverbal doesn't last, of course. 

Not yet.

_** Yeah, that's good, that's so good, Jim, that's so — **_

Jim pulls his hand away and crouches on his heels. He tilts his head to the side and lets himself smile a little evilly as Blair's eyes narrow. 

_** I'm dying here, man. **_

"Not yet," Jim answers conversationally. "But you will be." He ducks his head in close and blows a warm column of air along the underside of Blair's jerking cock, base to head, then pulls back and looks up at his victim. "We haven't even started yet, you know. We've got all evening. All night." He reaches up and twists Blair's nipple ring. Just once, but sharply, and Blair arches back against the chair. "And hell, tomorrow's Sunday. What's the rush?"

Blair's eyes are almost black.

And they haven't really started yet. Jim lets satisfaction pool in his belly; they'll definitely be doing this again. He stands up and adjusts the hard-on that's tenting his pants. In a while he'll jerk himself off right in front of Blair (he can hear Blair now, _** Not being able to touch you is maybe going to kill me, you asshole. God, Jim, I want to — **_ ), but he has other plans first.

_** Jim. **_ Arousal and frustration are vivid on Blair's face. His skin is almost golden in the candlelight, the candles Jim's scattered around the living room adding an extra dimension of almost-movement with their flickering light playing across Blair's tousled hair, his sweaty skin, his flushed and needy cock. 

"This is going to really be fun," Jim says, partly to himself, as he leans over Blair. He traces a finger along Blair's cheekbone, trails it along the line of the scarf, touches Blair's lips where they're clenched around the silk, smiles. 

Blair's eyes close. He shudders. 

Shudders hard. "It's okay," Jim murmurs, his finger now following the line of scarf along the other side of Blair's face. "It's okay." 

And Blair bucks like he's been shot, almost bucks himself off the chair, silk scarves and all, a sound coming from his throat that's, fuck, a _snarl,_ and his eyes fly open, bright blue and wild, fucking wild — not here with Jim, but somewhere else, _fuck_

Jim tries to help him, to free him, but Blair's like a live wire twisting and sparking, careless of damaging anything, including himself, and then he's got one hand free and the gag ripped off and is shouting, "Screw you, you head case, you think you can be me?" 

Oh Christ. 

"Chief," Jim says somehow, around a sudden lack of oxygen. _"Chief."_

He doesn't dare touch, not yet, so he backs off, fumbles for a lamp switch, gets more light — fucking _candles_ — into the loft for Blair, keeps saying "Chief, you're home, you're safe," like one of Blair's mantras, hoping those words are safe to use, because right now he can't remember the transcripts of what Lash said to Blair that fucking awful night and he doesn't want to say something wrong, something worse. 

The chair, with Blair still half tied to it, struggling against two of the scarves, is about to tip over, and _no,_ that's not happening; Jim rights it and finds himself yelling, a sharp "Chief!" that he didn't plan on, but — 

It works. It fucking works. Blair goes quiet in the chair, his chest heaving with ragged breaths. One breath wraps around an almost inaudible "Jim" like a sob and Jim's heart lurches painfully. "You with me, Chief?" he ventures after giving Blair the space of ten more ragged, desperate breaths. 

He already knows the answer, though. Blair's eyes are on him, and they're seeing _him,_ not Lash. Still, he waits until Blair nods before he adds, "Good, that's good." He rubs the back of his neck. It's not much of a substitute for pulling Blair up out of that fucking chair and wrapping his arms around him, but this isn't his first rodeo, even if it's one he should've been smart enough to avoid — one he'd give almost anything right now to have been smart enough to avoid — and he knows better than to touch until he's invited. So instead of pulling Blair in close, he rubs his neck again and says, "Shit, Sandburg. I'm sorry." 

Blair shakes his head. "Not your fault." His voice is hoarse, still a little shaky. "Just, you know what? I don't… I don't think this is my kink, okay? Let's not try this one again." 

Jim looks away for a moment, looks around the loft, where nothing's out of place, nothing's trashed, the door hasn't been kicked in. He looks back at Blair, at Blair's mouth. _**I'm dead,**_ Blair's face had said that night, just before he saw Jim, _**I'm dead,**_ all defiance and despair, fury, terror, _aloneness._

"Let's not," Jim says. He has too much to lose, now. 

Too much he never wants to lose. 


End file.
